


The Thrill of the Thought

by Edward_Fairfax



Series: Taking the Game Up [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9947558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edward_Fairfax/pseuds/Edward_Fairfax
Summary: At the end of the offseason, Tommy goes back to Pittsburgh a couple of days early. . . .A "Missing Scene" that takes place immediately before Chapter 28 ofAnd For the Record.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I kept wondering. . . .  
>   
> The title is from "You Go to My Head" (the Judy Garland version, not the Linda Ronstadt one!).  
>   
> I hope you enjoy it!

When they finally got to baggage claim, Tommy stopped by a convenient pillar and set down most of his burden.

“You sure you'll be okay from here?”

Jenna nodded. “Eddie texted me; he's stuck in traffic, but he's on his way. Tommy, I can't thank you enough for helping me.”

“Eh, it was nothing,” Tommy said dismissively; “I was happy to. Come on, punkin: time to go back to your mom.”

The little girl in his arms shook her head fiercely and said, “No.”

“No? Why not? You wanna be a princess, right? And you can't be a princess with me. Princesses need to live with their moms. Besides, you wouldn't like living in a locker room.” He lowered his voice. “It smells real bad.”

Her lip wobbled for a second and then her mouth firmed. “I be hockey princess. Like you.”

Tommy tried not to laugh. “Hey, I ain't a princess.”

A voice from behind him said, “You sure about that, Tommy?”

Tommy turned his head and grinned at Bran. “Yeah, pretty sure.” He shifted Lauren. “Now come on, punkin: your mom and dad would cry every night if you wasn't there. And that would make me cry too. And I ain't much to look at most times, but when I cry?” He shook his head. “I even scare myself.”

“Come on, Lauren,” Jenna said.

“No.” Mutinously.

“How about this? I'll take your picture with Tommy, and then when we get home, you can color him a card and send him a copy of it.”

“That's a real good idea,” Bran interjected. “Tommy doesn't get any fan mail. None. It's kinda tragic.”

Tommy was going to wipe that smirk right off his face the minute they were alone.

Lauren finally agreed, and Jenna snapped a couple of pictures. Then Bran whipped his phone out and took a couple himself; oh, that boy was gonna pay big time!

Once Jenna had Lauren, they all said goodbye, and Tommy scooped up his bag, neatly managing to elbow Bran in the process. Waving one last time, he led the way over to the carousel. He could hear Bran laughing from three paces away.

“You do anything with that picture, Bran, and you are dead meat.” He wondered if he could talk Andrew into hacking Bran's phone.

“Is that any way for a princess to talk?”

Tommy put some teeth into his smile. “Don't forget I got five older brothers. I've put bigger guys than you on the ground.”

“Yeah? Well, I bet you weren't wearing your crown at the time.”

Tommy clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, fu--” He stopped himself before he ripped it off. Turned his head. And waved once again at Lauren.

“I am gonna fucking _end_ you!” he muttered darkly. But he wasn't entirely successful at hiding his grin.

*********

Tommy started laughing when he saw Bran's car.

“Seriously? You drive a mini-van?”

“It's my mom's,” Bran said, a little defensively. Then he rallied. “And it's a good thing I borrowed it, what with all your shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway: I really appreciate you picking me up.”

“Not a problem, Tommy.” He chucked the last bag in, and as the hatch swung shut, grinned. “But you can feel free to thank me some more. Any way you want. When we're not in public.”

Well, that didn't take long, Tommy thought to himself. Gleefully. Since he hadn't been entirely sure. . . . Out loud, he said, “It's a deal.”

“Okay,” Bran said, starting the engine.

Once they were out of the airport, Tommy asked, “You know the way?”

Bran gave him a look. “Tommy. Everybody in Pittsburgh knows where Crosby lives.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm really, really not.” Another look. “Why are you surprised?”

“I don't know. I guess . . . I never really thought about it. I mean, it's not like buses full of tourists stop outside.” He snickered. “I almost wish they would: I can see Sid now: giving the bus the stare of death.”

“He couldn't do that,” Bran objected; “only Tazer knows that one.” After he made a turn, he added, “You ever get chirped for being his roommate?”

“Not too much,” Tommy said honestly. “I mean, the usual robot jokes. And the homophobic shit, of course.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “You think I remember? Or pay real attention, even? 'Crosby make you his bitch every night?' Shit like that. Nothing I can't handle.”

“What'd you say?”

“Usually something like, 'He'd be lucky to get a piece of me.' And we laugh and move on.” He shrugged. “Most of the time, anyway. There was one fucktard on the Stars, though: kept coming back to it. Kinda . . . vicious. Even though I know better, it started to get to me.”

“You fight him?”

“Please. Do I look stupid? That's what he wanted. No, I tried to ignore it, but Sid . . . he could tell I was getting steamed. So, next face-off, the asshole started right in again, so Sid said, completely deadpan, 'Hey, if I fucked him, at least he'd feel it.' And everybody in earshot cracked up.” He smiled in satisfaction. “Believe me, he left it alone after that. And to make things even better, that same shift, Sid fed the puck to my tape; that asshole tried to check me, but I got around him and sank it. It was pure luck: I never would've made the shot before, but from that angle? Golden. So I thanked him for the assist. _After_ Sid and me had a _real_ obnoxious celly.”

They both laughed.

“What a fucking pencil-dick,” Bran commented.

“From what I hear, that's not being fair to pencils.”

This time, Bran snickered. “You know something? I honestly can't believe that it's women who have the reputation of being gossips. Compared to the NHL? Total amateurs.”

“You got that right.”

At the next light, Bran asked, “So who was your friend at the airport?”

“Lauren? Cute kid, right? She and her mom got on in Minneapolis. I think Jenna was a little afraid I was gonna bitch about being next to a little kid, but Lauren and me hit it off right away. Jenna's not the most organized person in the world, so I helped her with her carry-on shit.” He shook his head. “I gotta tell you, Bran: I think the worst thing about flying commercial is that everybody's so fucking unfriendly. I mean, yeah, you got a connecting flight, you want to get off the plane, but there's, like, basic politeness, which nobody seems to remember.”

“You flew coach?” Bran's voice was incredulous.

“Uh, yeah. You don't?”

“Not if I can help it. Don't the Pens pay you?”

Tommy made a rude gesture. “I think you got a few more zeroes in your check than I do.”

“Tommy. You need to take care of yourself. Seriously, man: you can do bad things to your circulation being all cramped up in coach.”

Huh. “I never thought of it that way. Well, maybe next time.”

“Come on, guy: you work hard. Treat yourself.”

Tommy tried to make his tone suggestive. “I kinda thought I was doing that. I mean, I came back to Pittsburgh early.”

Bran glanced over. And his eyes darkened.

“I kinda think it's me getting a treat.”

“Maybe we can take turns. In fact, I'm gonna have to insist on it.”

**********

Tommy brought the last of his bags inside and shouldered the door shut. And found himself being pulled into a hug. A really tight, full-body contact hug.

“Hey,” Bran said. “It's really good to see you again.”

“You too.”

“I wish I could've done this at the airport.”

“Yeah? Well, my arms were kinda full.”

“That too.”

Before the comment really registered, Bran pulled Tommy's head down to his and started kissing him.

And Tommy kissed him back.

And . . . things escalated so fast that Tommy almost wasn't conscious of anything other than the deep, burning need consuming him. He pivoted and slammed Bran into the door, plundering his mouth and swallowing his gasps—of lust? Of approval? Whatever they were, they sounded almost helpless.

Bran thrust his groin up into Tommy's, making him groan—and then started clawing at his shirt. Tommy followed suit—and they plastered themselves against each other again, bare chest to bare chest, still drinking deep of each other's mouth. Tommy could feel Bran's hands fumbling at his waist—he tore his mouth away long enough to curse Tommy's belt—and then he sank to his knees, taking Tommy's jeans and boxers with him. With his eyes locked on Tommy's, he rasped, “I want . . . I need you to fuck my face.”

“Yeah?”

Bran nodded his head so rapidly he looked like a Bobble-Head.

Tommy ran his hand through Bran's hair: and then tightened his grip.

“You want this too?”

All Tommy could see now was the whites of Bran's eyes.

“Oh, yeah. Please, Tommy.” He sounded _wrecked—_ so Tommy latched on and gave him what he'd asked for. What he needed.

Tommy had only done this once before—and that time, he'd been the one on his knees—but he remembered what he'd liked—and, more importantly, what he hadn't liked. He didn't yank: he tugged. He used his left hand to hold Bran's head in place: and his right to pat his hair. He tried to keep his thrusts slow and steady—although he didn't know how long he could keep that up. And most importantly—at least to Tommy, who'd whacked off hundreds of times to this fantasy—he praised.

“Oh fuck, Bran,” he muttered lowly, “you're so good. So fucking good. Your fucking mouth is so sweet: making my dick feel so good, like it belongs there.” He had no idea where that had come from: but it had an immediate effect on both of them. Tommy felt a surge of heat rise behind his balls; he bit his lip—hard—because it was way too soon to come, while Bran made some kind of guttural groan, before he opened his mouth even wider, shoved his nose into Tommy's pubes, and used his tongue to swipe the top of his sac.

Tommy felt his eyes roll back in his head. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ!” He hung there, motionless, for as long as he could stand it, and then slowly angled his hips back.

Bran groaned—no, _whimpered_.

“Don't worry, Bran,” Tommy got out, trying to focus, “I'll give you more. As much as you want.” He stared down. “As much as you need.”

Bran tried to lunge forward, but Tommy held his head motionless. “I'll make it good for you. I promise. Okay?”

Bran nodded. And then he started pulling at his belt.

Tommy tilted his head back a little. “Yeah, take your dick out. I want you to feel good. But . . . you don't come that way. Okay?”

Bran's eyelids fluttered shut for a second.

“That okay, Bran? Can you wait? 'Cause I really wanna make you come myself.” He leaned over a little. “It'll be so sweet, Bran, I promise. I'll make you feel so fucking good. Make you come with the taste of me still in your mouth. Can we do that?”

Even from this angle, Tommy could see Bran's cock jump. Bran opened his eyes—his pupils were actually dilated—and he nodded.

Then he took a quick breath and sank back down on Tommy's dick, until Tommy could feel his throat surround the head. And then tighten on it.

“Oh fucking hell!”

They were the last words that Tommy had any conscious control over. What followed was a babble—of praise, of encouragement, even of pleading. He tried—fuck, how he tried!—to hold back: but he wasn't capable of infinite restraint. His movements got erratic—at times maybe even a little rough—but through it all, Bran's eyes kept cutting up to his. Shining at him. Urging him on.

Fucking inspiring him.

Time seemed to both speed up and slow down. And when things finally came to an end—that inevitable, too soon, too delayed end—Tommy shook through his climax—literally, shook: trembled and jerked spasmodically—as he emptied himself into Bran's mouth.

And when he finally had to pull out, he looked down: to see Bran's eyes, even brighter than before, staring up at him. Saw his dick, standing tall, swollen with blood, strands of precum weeping out. Saw his hands, palms down, resting on his thighs.

But maybe more important was not what he saw but what he heard: Bran's sigh. Not of impatience. But of contentment.

Bracing himself on the door, he slid down. Used one hand to tilt Bran's chin up. Kissed him lightly, once, twice, a third time. Reached down and gave his dick a little squeeze. Loved the reaction: the instinctive surge forward, checked almost immediately.

He cleared his throat. Then he did it again. And said—his voice sounding almost nothing like his own, “We're gonna need a flat surface that's not the floor for what I'm gonna do to you.”

Bran had to clear his throat too. “Yeah?” Oh God: his voice was like gravel; Tommy shivered a little. “Bedroom?”

Shaking his head, Tommy gave him another quick kiss. “Not yet.” He forced himself to his feet, reached down and pulled Bran up. “There're these fucking incredible couches in the media room. I wanna see what you look like all spread out on one.”

And a couple of minutes later, he did.

**********

“You know,” Tommy remarked conversationally, as they lay together afterwards, half-drowsing (well, maybe more than half in Bran's case), “you got the hairiest ass I ever seen.”

Bran roused himself enough to give him a punch. “Gee, thanks.”

“Hey, it was a compliment!”

Bran quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah? You make me sound like an ape.”

Tommy considered that. “Okay, maybe I said it wrong. It's not actually your whole ass. Just your ass crack. And I like it. I mean, I like the fact that you're hairy—since obviously, I'm not, really—but. . . .”

“But what?”

He felt himself starting to blush a little. “I liked the way your hair there felt. On my tongue.”

Another “Yeah?” but this one was more . . . speculative.

Tommy nodded.

Bran shifted a little. “Anything else you liked about it?”

“Maybe,” Tommy said, drawing the word out.

“Like what?”

“Like . . . how dark it is. Against your skin. And how it looked, after I licked your crack for a while.” He lowered his voice a little. “It got all shiny from my spit. It kind of . . . glistened.”

“That sounds . . . interesting.”

Tommy nodded. “I thought so.” He leaned in a little closer. “You got so much of it, though: I had to work real hard. To work through all of it.” He paused. “And when I finally found your hole? I mean, I'd gotten glimpses of it. Peeking through. But when I finally uncovered it? It was so fucking pretty, Bran: That I had to lick it too. 'Til it was all nice and red and shiny wet against the black hair.” He paused again, and pressed up even closer. “I hope you didn't mind me paying so much attention to it.”

A beat. “Do I look stupid?”

Tommy swallowed a chuckle. “Not at all. So: you're telling me you liked it?”

“I sure as shit did.” Bran grinned at him. “And I also like where this conversation is going. But I need to take a piss first.” He looked down at himself. “And maybe a shower.”

“We can do that. I seem to remember us taking showers together before.”

“I remembered those showers all fucking summer long.” They both laughed, before starting to separate themselves.

“You know, this really is a great couch,” Bran remarked, “uh, even without the sex.”

“Ain't it?” Tommy laughed. “It's like, one of Sid's favorite things in the world.”

Bran smirked. “Wonder what he'd say if he knew we had sex on it.”

“Believe me, you don't want to know.” Pointing to the other couch, Tommy added, “It'd be worse if we had it where he sits, though.” He cocked his head. “We'll have to find time to do that later.”

**********

After a lengthy shower—enlivened by a leisurely hand-job (despite the difference in their heights, they managed to line their dicks up and stroke them together, kissing all the while: Tommy's idea of heaven)—they dried each other off and tried to decide what to do next.

“Nap or food?”

“Nap first, then food.”

“Okay, fine.” Tommy led them to his bed, tossing over his shoulder, “But I doubt there's anything here, so we'll have to order in.”

Bran shrugged. “Fine by me. I can't cook for shit.”

**********

After they made up the bed, they slipped under the sheets and snuggled for a while, before they both fell asleep. Tommy was the first to wake up, as he had been the other two times they'd slept together: and like those two times, Bran was blissing out—and drooling on Tommy's pillow. Which Tommy should not have found as cute as he did. He wriggled a little closer, closed his eyes again and luxuriated in having Bran near him.

It had been an interesting summer. They'd talked a lot: not every night—not always—but at least every other; Tommy had literally never spent that much time on the phone in his entire life. Not that they'd talked about anything . . . deep. Hockey, of course: Bran's recaps of the messages all the Hawks got from Toews—who Bran called “Captain Text” in the offseason—were hilarious. They talked about everyday shit too: for some reason, Bran really liked hearing about Tommy's family. They also did more than talk: they streamed Netflix together, and Bran sent Tommy music files (they even hammered out an agreement of taking turns and setting limits, after Tommy had rebelled after having to listen to eight versions of the same freaking aria all in a row).

But the one thing they never talked about? What the hell they were doing. 'Cause you didn't have to be Einstein—or Daniel—to figure out that what they had going on wasn't typical friend behavior. And even though, as the summer had gone on, sometimes their conversations got a little . . . suggestive, they never talked about sex either. Or brought up the idea of having phone sex. Which Tommy had never really done before, and he sure as shit wasn't going to be the one to bring it up. (Besides: he kind of thought that for phone sex to be any good, you should really have a lot of actual sex under your belt first. As a starting point, anyway.)

So: on the one hand, he had this fun, regular—emphasis on the regular—routine going on. Which he really, really liked. On the other hand, he felt a little . . . uncertain. Friend zone? It _had_ to be more than that. But what? He kept telling himself just to enjoy it (and Andy kept telling him that too), and most days, he succeeded—but he was only human, and he was definitely still himself, so sometimes he found himself wondering what the fuck “it” was. Not that he was likely to stop doing it—to be honest, which Tommy usually tried to be, especially with himself, he really couldn't imagine not being friends with Bran ever again—but still: he wondered. And . . . dreamed. A little. Sometimes.

So when Bran had brought up the idea of Tommy coming back a little early—so they could spend some time in Pittsburgh before Bran had to head off to Chicago—Tommy had jumped at the chance. And hadn't even hesitated—or grimaced, even—at what it cost him to change his ticket. Which was a real tell. Had anyone else even known. Still, though: even with the invitation, Bran hadn't been . . . specific. About exactly what might be on the agenda—although, Tommy smirked, given that it was Bran, he should probably change that sentence to “what might be on the program.”

Come to think of it—and Tommy laughed silently as Bran rolled over and he shifted to accommodate the new position—if the name of the aria was sex? Eight times wasn't gonna be enough. Not nearly enough.

**********

Order for dinner placed, Tommy pulled out a beer. “You want one?”

“Sure. But . . . you're not?”

“I will. But I should call home first. Ma actually does believe that I'm capable of acting like a responsible person—unlike most of my brothers—but she still likes it if I check in.”

“Well, I'll get out of your hair.”

“Don't bother; stay if you want. ”

“Nah. You mind if I take a look around?”

Tommy shook his head, so Bran wandered off.

His call home took longer than he thought it would—sometimes the drama blew his mind—so it was about fifteen minutes before he pocketed his phone. He took out a beer for himself, and then his hand hovered, undecided, over a second one.

“You want another, Bran?” he called out.

There was no answer, so he went in search; he expected to find him in the media room, but didn't. He walked back into the hall—and noticed that the door to the downstairs bathroom was closed. He shook his head, almost in disbelief: he must have the world's tiniest bladder, Tommy thought to himself; how the fuck does he make it through a game? As he walked back towards the kitchen, he tried to decide if that was something he could actually ask.

He put his bottle back—he despised warm beer—and perched on his stool to wait, pulling out his phone again when it buzzed. Losing himself in trying to decipher a text from one of his brothers—Matty didn't know how to spell at the best of times, and just let auto-correct do whatever the fuck it wanted—he was only dimly aware of footsteps coming down the hall.

“Uh . . . Tommy?”

“Yeah?” he asked abstractedly, raising his head—and then snapped to attention at the look on Bran's face. Shock was probably too tame a word to use.

“I swear I wasn't snooping . . . but I saw the piano, and I went in and saw. . . .” His voice trailed off, and he held out his hand. He was holding a picture frame, which Tommy didn't recognize. He took it . . . and winced.

It was of Sid and Andrew at Christmas skate. Last time Tommy had seen it, it had been in Sid's room—and in a different frame; guess Elisabeth—or Daniel, probably—hadn't limited the redecorating to painting walls after he'd left.

There was a moment's silence, which Tommy broke by saying, lamely, “Great picture, huh?”

“Seriously? Sid and _Andrew_?” Bran's voice cracked on the name, and if Tommy weren't so stressed, he would've laughed. “I mean . . . I knew they were friends—Tazer said so—but I thought . . . the whole . . . all the Pens, I mean . . . why didn't you _tell_ me?”

“Not exactly my story to tell, Bran. You know?”

“Well, yeah . . . but this summer . . . we _talked_ about who in the league was gay. I _asked_ you if the rumors about Sid were true.”

“And I told you the truth: I've never seen Sid even try to hook up with anybody—male or female.” Tommy gestured towards the picture. “Uh, he kind of didn't have to. You know?”

Bran spared the frame another glance. “I guess not. They look . . . uh, like they're about to jump each other.”

“Sounds about right.” Tommy laughed a little; “To be honest: they always look like that. In private, anyhow.”

“I can't _believe_ I didn't notice in Vegas!”

“I can't believe it either,” Tommy smirked.

Bran ignored the chirp. “I mean, I'll be honest: I _did_ wonder. A little. That vocalise . . . huh.” He thought for a few seconds and then shrugged. “Guess Andrew's a better actor than even his reviews say.”

“Probably. 'Cause Sid ain't exactly subtle.”

They both laughed.

“So that piano . . . is Andrew's?”

Tommy nodded. “Sid gave it to him. Birthday present.”

Bran whistled. “That's some present. I've been to concerts—big names—where the pianos weren't that good.”

“I'll have to take your word for that.” Tommy shifted awkwardly. “Listen, Bran: I didn't mean to mislead you—this summer, I mean. And I didn't lie. But there's a big difference between repeating rumors and gossip and . . . well, it ain't my place to out people, you know? Even to you. And if it makes you feel any better: I'd do the same thing for you.”

Bran stared at him for a few seconds; his face was . . . hard to read. Then he relaxed. “I appreciate that, Tommy. I really do. And if it makes _you_ feel any better, I promise I won't say a word about Sid to anybody.” He grinned, suddenly. “Of course, now that I know? You have _got_ to tell me everything!”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “I do, huh? Who made up that rule?” And then he lowered his voice a little. “And what's in it for me?”

Taking a step closer, Bran leaned in. “I bet I can make it worth your while.”

Tommy kissed him. “Like I told you in Vegas: I don't gamble.” Another kiss.

“Then just call it—me—a sure thing.”

**********

They'd barely finished when their dinner got there.

**********

After they'd cleaned up (the dishes were a snap; getting barbecue sauce off their fingers—and their faces—and their nipples—was a little harder), they collapsed in the media room.

“You wanna watch something?” Tommy asked. “Or listen to something, maybe?”

“I do have my player with me.”

Tommy could barely refrain from rolling his eyes; like Bran went anywhere without his music. Instead, he asked, “You enjoying your new toy?”

“You have no idea how much,” Bran enthused. “I was so psyched when they passed them out at the convention. The sound is great, and I love the whole tag browser thing. I've, like, organized my whole collection.” He got an embarrassed look on his face that Tommy found completely adorable. “I, uh, had to install another memory card. But now I've got everything in one place. It's fucking unbelievable!”

Tommy tried to repress a grin. “I hope you was a gentleman when you broke up with your iPod.”

Bran spit-laughed a mouthful of his beer. “No lie: I felt bad. That thing and me? We've been through a lot together. 'Baby,' I told it, 'I'm real sorry. But it's time for me to move on. Please don't hate me.'”

“It say anything back to you?”

“It cried. A little. So I did too.” He paused, and then, with a half-embarrassed look on his face, admitted, “I spent, like, an hour thinking of what would be the best thing to listen to for our last date.”

Tommy had to laugh. “You are such a dork.”

“I know I am. And I hope _you_ know: there's nobody else in the world I would _ever_ tell that story to!”

Which made Tommy feel . . . all kinds of _glowy_ . . . inside. It also seemed to be a pretty good opening, but before he could say anything, Bran changed position, put his head in Tommy's lap, and smiling up at him, said, “Honestly? I don't think I want to listen to music right now. I'd really like it if you told me a story.”

“About what?” Like he didn't know.

“About your family.”

Tommy had to roll his eyes. “Haven't you heard enough about my family?”

“Nah. Come on, Tommy: please? I like hearing about them.”

“Seriously?”

Bran nodded.

“Okay, fine. But I got no idea what to tell you; we're not that interesting.”

“Well, I think so.” Bran's lips twitched. “Jesus: you look so skeptical! I'm telling you the truth!”

“Oh, I believe you; I just don't get why.” Tommy thought for a few seconds. Skeptical, huh? He grinned. “Okay. How about I tell you the story about why I'm named Tommy.”

“Sounds good to me.” Bran squirmed a little, getting more comfortable. “Okay: hit me.”

Tommy cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, there was a guy named Allen. Who married a girl named Louise. They both wanted a big family, and when she was pregnant with their first kid, they talked a lot about what to name it. See, Allen was a junior, and he hated being one, so he said that he didn't want to name their kids after any relatives. And Louise didn't exactly agree with that—'cause if it was a girl, she wanted to name the kid after her grandmother. But Allen, he felt real strongly about it, so they compromised, saying that the kid's middle name could be a family one, but the first name couldn't be.

“So they spent, like, nine months trying to pick first names; according to them, they drove themselves completely crazy. And when the kid was born—it was a boy—they named it Andrew. Andrew Franklin, to get specific (Ma had an Uncle Franklin. Or maybe it was a Great-Uncle. It don't really matter.).

“Anyway: she got pregnant a second time, and they went through the whole process again. Only it was even more painful than before. They ended up naming the kid James Martin. And according to my mom, she said to my dad, 'Let's not have any more kids for a while; picking names is too stressful.'”

He laughed. “Well, she got pregnant again real fast. And totally refused to talk about names. So, they was heading to the church for the christening, and Dad says to her, 'Don't you think we should decide?' And she looked out the car window and pointed to a street sign. 'How about Matthew? And Vincent, after your grandfather.'

“'Fine by me,' my dad said. But when they got to the church and told the priest, he, like, practically jumped up and down. And then he tells them, 'I think it's just wonderful you're naming your sons after Jesus' disciples.'”

Tommy started laughing. “Now, neither of my parents is real religious. And I think if it had been up to them, they would have picked something different right then and there. But I guess they both felt it was too late to do that. Or awkward, whatever. So the kid was christened, and as they was going back to the car, my dad says, 'You know, that's one problem solved. If we have any more . . . well, it's a pretty short list.' And Ma cracked up and said okay.”

Tommy quirked a smile down at Bran, who was doing his best not to crack up himself.

“So, the next two was John Baxter and Peter William. Easy peasy. And then it was my turn. And I was supposed to be Philip Burton. But when I was born and they gave me to Ma to hold for the first time, she took one look at me and started laughing. 'Look at him, Allen,' she says, 'he's really not impressed!' And my dad, he laughs too and says, 'He don't really know if he wants to be here or not, does he? Talk about suspicious!' So that's why they named me after Doubting Thomas instead.”

All of Bran's self-restraint vanished and he burst out laughing.

**********

“It's your turn now,” Tommy announced; “you tell _me_ a story.”

Bran made a face. “I'm really not good at stories.”

“What difference does that make? You got a friendly audience here, Bran. Besides: you should know by now that I, uh, like things that are, um, equal opportunity.”

A grin flashed across Bran's face. “I guess you do at that. Okay, give me a minute.”

Tommy waited—and while he did, he ran his fingers through Bran's hair. Every so often, he rubbed Bran's scalp—which never failed to get a reaction; the one time Tommy lightly drew his nails across, Bran actually shivered.

“You like that, huh?”

“I sure do.” Bran opened his mouth . . . and then closed it.

“What?”

“Uh . . . well, I was gonna say: I liked what you did earlier. When . . . I was sucking you off.”

“You mean . . . the tugs?”

He nodded. So Tommy did it again. And enjoyed the way Bran's back arched up.

“I guess you do like that. So tell me a story and I'll do it some more.”

Another silence, and then Bran said, haltingly, “I don't know if this is a story so much as . . . a secret.”

Tommy soothed his scalp. “I know how to keep a secret, Bran.”

“I know. Which is why I'm actually considering . . . okay.” He cleared his throat. “I was . . . kind of a late bloomer. Sexually, I mean. It took me a while to, uh, figure stuff out. Probably longer than it takes most people.” His lips twitched. “I'd bet for sure a lot longer than it took you. Given that you have two older brothers who're gay too.”

And two more who are flexible, Tommy thought. Which was not something he'd ever told anybody else. And then there was . . . well, whatever the fuck Jimmy was.

“Anyway. I don't . . . didn't . . . have a lot of, uh, experience. I mean, I knew what I was feeling . . . but some of it got, I don't know, kinda jumbled in my head.” He huffed out a laugh. “There's not much difference between team bonding and foreplay, you know?”

Tommy snickered. “You got that right. Until, you know, there is.”

“Uh, yeah.” Bran rolled his eyes. “Some of those guys . . . well, whatever.” He shook his head. “When I was in the CHL, though, things picked up a little.”

“I'm guessing you mean _you_ got picked up. And since I've seen pics of you then, I'd also guess more than a little.”

A sheepish grin. “Maybe so. Well, in comparison, maybe; anything's more than nothing.” His face changed. “Wait: when did you see pictures?”

“Oh come on, Bran: you think I didn't Google-image search you six ways from Sunday the morning after in Vegas?” Tommy studied him. “Why do you look so surprised?”

“I . . . don't know. I guess . . . I'm not so much surprised that you did it. Maybe more that you admitted it.” He laughed. “But I guess I shouldn't be. You're not like anybody else I've ever been with. Which . . . is kind of why I'm telling you this story.”

“Yeah?”

Bran nodded. “Usually, when I picked up in those days, it was another player. And usually after a game, so it was . . . fast. Hot and heavy. But quick. And most times, only a one-shot deal. Which I know you don't really like.”

“Not with you, anyhow,” Tommy winked. And then watched in fascination as Bran started to blush. Which _really_ did something to Tommy's rapidly diminishing ability to restrain himself around this guy. He patted Bran's hair again. “Go on with your story.”

Bran cleared his throat again. “Uh, okay. Well. We had a Saturday off. And I managed to get away from the other guys and went to one of the simulcasts from the Met. You know about those?”

“Yeah; Andrew told us about them. He hosted one when he was staying here in April.”

“That's right. Anyway. When I got back to my seat during intermission, the guy next to me started a conversation. He was maybe ten, twelve years older than me (I was probably the youngest person in the whole theatre), and he taught music at one of the local colleges. Knew a hell of a lot about opera.

“After the performance, he invited me out for a drink. Or, he said, we could go back to his place and he'd play me some of the rare bootlegs he had.” He grinned. “You can guess which I picked.”

“I can. And I can also guess where this is heading.”

“I bet you can—partways, anyhow. To make a long story short, we did listen to a couple of things. But then he tumbled me into the sack.” He shifted a little. “Picture it, Tommy: there we are rolling around on his bed. And he's begging me to shaft him. So I put on a rubber and start to lube him up. I get two fingers in him, and he's, like, practically aspirating. So I line up my dick and I'm ready to start pushing it in . . . and then all of a sudden, there's this hand on my ass and it _shoves_ me, real fast, all the way into the other guy's hole.”

Tommy's jaw dropped. “Holy shit!”

“I know! Now, you know I don't have the biggest dick in the world. But it's not exactly small either. And it must have hurt, 'cause, like, his eyes roll back in his head and he kind of chokes. And then this deep voice behind me says, 'You want to fuck my boyfriend?' And I was frozen. Then the hand grabs my hair and he asks me again. So I manage to get out, 'Yeah.' Then the voice says, 'Feel free. But you have to do it _exactly_ the way I tell you to.'”

Bran looked away for a second or two, and then shook his head. “Tommy . . . I can't really explain how that felt to me. Inside my head, I mean. I think I'd started to go soft—the shock, you know? But when he said that? Fucking steel city. And then he started giving me orders. Me first, and then the two of us. Faster. Slower. Change positions. Stuff like that. And then he whispered in my ear, 'You don't come until I give you permission. You got that, boy?'”

The blush was back—big time. “I was so fucking turned on, I'm surprised I didn't shoot right then and there. And then I feel something soft—I later found out it was one of his fucking neckties—go 'round my balls. And he'd pull on it every so often. To remind me who was in charge.” He swallowed. “Who was giving the orders.”

Tommy could see the lump in Bran's shorts jerk when he said those words—and wondered if Bran could feel his own spike underneath his skull.

“When he finally let me shoot—he made his boyfriend come a lot sooner, and ordered me to up the intensity, to fuck him through it, to fuck him hard again—I think I blacked out for a few seconds. And when I came to, I kind of knew it was time to, uh, face the music. So I, like, held on to the rubber and slid the rest of the way out, and then I turned around. I had no idea what to expect—I hadn't even gotten a good look up 'til then—but I really wasn't expecting to see this, like, typical suburban dad with this great big shit-eating grin on his face. And he said to his boyfriend, 'You picked a winner this time!' And the other guy laughed, and said, 'I thought you'd be pleased!'” He shook his head, remembering. “Then he nodded to me, and said, 'Once you ditch the glove, I'll introduce myself properly.'”

“And did he?” Tommy asked, laughing a little.

“Shook my hand and everything,” Bran admitted. “We went into the kitchen and had a couple of beers. It was fucking surreal.”

“They make a habit of doing that?”

“Not too often, they said. Just once in a while. It . . . I think Mal (he was the guy, uh, in charge) said it spiced things up. So we shot the shit for a while. Then Mal says to me, 'You need to leave?' And it was still early, so I said no. And he gave me this stare, and then he pointed. First to me, then to his boyfriend. And then to the floor. 'The two of you. Down there. You're both gonna suck my cock. Whoever's better—whoever does _exactly_ what I tell him to—is gonna get my load. Maybe in your mouth. Maybe all over your face. It's my decision. So on your knees, boys. Now.'

“And Tommy, I didn't even stop to think; I was just fucking _there_ , you know?” He seemed a little embarrassed.

“It sounds pretty hot,” Tommy told him. Honestly. “I would've done the same fucking thing.” He paused. “So. Who won?”

“I did.” Bran's tone—and his grin—were triumphant. “But Jesus: he made me work for it!” He hesitated—and with a half-embarrassed grin, admitted, “And all during this . . . there was music playing; to this day, I spring wood if I hear Birgit Nilsson sing Turandot.”

“Remind me to make you spell that later on so I can download it!”

When they'd both stopped laughing, Tommy said, “Not that I didn't enjoy hearing that—because I for sure did—but . . . is there a message here? 'Cause I don't want to be that guy, you know? The one who assumes he understands everything.”

“Well, yeah. There is. But I bet you've already figured it out.”

“Maybe I have. But I still want you to tell me. 'Cause it could be a couple of different things.”

“I guess it could at that. Well, the main reason is . . . sometimes, I . . . like to take orders. To, uh, you know, be there just to please.” He was blushing again. “It's not something I get to do a lot. Or even want to do with most of the randoms I trick with. And for sure, not with anybody else in the league. Well, mostly. I mean, you? You're in the league, obviously, but it . . . felt right with you. I felt like I could . . . fuck, I don't know . . . tell you this and not get judged.” He hesitated, and then, his voice a little lower, said, “I guess I really trust you. Plus,” and his tone picked up a little, “you're, like, really good at it. Taking charge during sex. But not in a, like, selfish, me-me-me way. You really pay attention.” He smirked. “Even when I'm sucking your brains out through your dick.”

Even though Tommy rolled his eyes, he still let himself enjoy the fucking . . . _heady_ sense of warmth—and pride—Bran's words sent coursing through him. 'Like the kicker in a julep or two,' he quoted to himself with a mental snicker.

“So that's why I told you. I wanted you to know this about me. I kind of figured you'd get it. And understand. And . . . not think less of me.”

“If you're worried about that last thing, you can just fucking put it out of your mind forever,” Tommy told him frankly. “First of all, there ain't nothing wrong with being turned on by wanting to please somebody else. I like that too. A lot.” This time, it was he who hesitated. “I got to say, though: 'cause I _do_ get turned on by it—that idea, I mean . . . I ain't never been on . . . the other side of things, I guess. I, uh, hope I do it right.”

“You're fucking fantastic at it, Tommy. Trust me on this.”

“Well, good. I just do—or say, maybe—the kinds of things I think about when I whack off. 'Cause it's not like I get to do stuff like this in real time.”

That got him a raised eyebrow, so he explained, “Before Vegas, I hadn't had sex—with anybody but me, anyway—since the preseason.”

“You're _shitting_ me!”

“Trust me, I'm not. Oh come on, Bran: you was called up from the A too. You must remember the pressure.”

“I remember that the worst thing about being called up from the A was being sent back,” Bran said sourly.

“Word. And when I got called up—again—it was even worse.”

“I remember that too. But . . . seriously, Tommy? Since the preseason?” He shook his head. “The Pens must be real different than the Hawks. They made it their business to try and get me laid.” He grimaced. “And wasn't that just a barrel of laughs. Or the opposite, actually.” He changed his voice. “'You're too fucking serious, Saader. You're like a mini-Tazer.' That and fucking 'Man-Child,'” he said in disgust. “Even Tazer bought into that one.”

A wayward thought burst into Tommy's mind. He almost started to giggle.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on, Tommy! What did you just think of? Tell me!”

Laughing, Tommy gave in. “It's only . . . well, it occurred to me that . . . I mean, I get the servicing thing; I really do. But for me, it's kind of linked to, you know, getting praised. Not to liking being given orders. And in my head just now . . . oh Christ, Bran: word in the league is that Toews is even bossier than Sid. Do your wires ever get crossed?”

Tommy actually didn't know a word to describe the look on Bran's face. Or maybe he just couldn't think of it, since whatever it was, Bran's expression made him laugh so hard he jolted Bran off of his lap and onto the floor.

**********

By the time they fell asleep, Tommy was sure Bran had forgiven him for the outburst. He was also sure that if his ass were capable of it, it would send Bran a thank you note.

**********

The next morning—after a too-early-to-really-wake-up necking session that turned into a long, languorous fuck (the sight of Bran sitting on his dick, his eyes locked onto Tommy's as he slowly, slowly, raised and lowered himself was not one he would forget anytime soon—or ever, maybe)—Tommy slipped out of bed and padded down to the kitchen. The coffee on, he plopped onto his stool and gave a contented sigh.

This, he told himself, was the life. And then he snorted. Too bad it was temporary.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed. A text from Andy. 

> _Turn ur fucking brain off & enjoy_

Tommy tried to think of something sufficiently rude to send back when another text arrived. 

> _& send deets_

“Yeah, right,” Tommy thought. Still, turning his brain off was good advice—even if it was almost impossible to achieve. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd gone over the same ground—mostly in his head but also with Andy—and Geoff. Fact: Both him and Bran was in the NHL. Fact: They'd worked pretty fucking hard to get there, and not many people ever got even that close to having their dreams fulfilled. Fact: As long as they were both playing—especially in different conferences—there was literally no way they could be together.

He knew all these things. He accepted them. They were reality.

That didn't mean, however, that reality didn't suck.

And also, if he was being honest with himself (and even though he'd never said this to Andy, he kind of thought his brother knew it too), accepting those facts as reality didn't mean that he couldn't crave . . . _something_. Some . . . assurance, maybe. That what he and Bran had started might—eventually—go somewhere else. Most of the time, he felt like they'd become firm friends—that if nothing else, they always would be friends. But moving to . . . what? The next level? He didn't even know what to call it (well, he did, but he didn't want to jinx things, even in his own mind), and he really didn't know what the odds of that ever happening were. Depending on his mood, he either thought it was a sure thing or a sucker's bet.

Good thing he didn't gamble. Well, for money, anyway.

He got up, filled his mug, and busied himself making a shopping list. Needing some additional distraction, he put in his ear buds and set his favorites to play randomly.

And his ploy worked—at least initially—because the first two selections were actually the same song, sung by different people. Which made him put down his pen and think. Bran might feel otherwise, being an opera expert and all, but Tommy had thought all eight versions of that aria had sounded pretty much the same; here, though, where he actually understood what the hell people were singing . . . yeah, even though the words were the same, the song was completely different. And he found himself, uncharacteristically, thinking deep thoughts about interpretation.

Which led him back to the situation at hand.

His 'brown study,' as his Gramma would have called it, was interrupted by a pair of arms snaking around his chest, and a kiss being dropped on the top of his head. His grin felt five miles wide as he yanked out the buds and said, “Hey there.”

“Morning, Tommy.”

“You want some coffee?”

“I can get it.” Which he did, refilling Tommy's mug at the same time. “What're you listening to?”

“Random play. Which I bet is something you don't do very often.”

“Not really, no. Usually, I like to hear my operas in order.”

“I guess. But on this thing, you can exclude or include different tags or playlists when you do random, you know.”

Bran's eyebrows shot up. “Really? That sounds like a pretty good feature. You're quite the pro,” he teased.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Although I'm a lot better than I was. Ever since my brothers got theirs, I kinda had to become Mr. Expert.” He still couldn't really believe that Andrew's parents had given every person in his family one of the players; when he'd called Daniel to protest, Daniel had just laughed at him. Before telling him he was being boring and hanging up on him.

“You mind if I look at yours?”

“'Course not.” Tommy handed it over, and amused himself by watching Bran's reactions. He went to the opera section first, of course—which was a lot larger now than it had been, thanks to him—but inspected everything else pretty thoroughly too. And wasn't hesitant about commenting.

“How much Adele does one person need?”

“ABBA? Oh Jesus, the Village People? Seriously?”

Tommy laughed. “I got that for a joke.”

“You got that part right, anyhow. You actually made a tag for gay anthems?” He scrolled. “There's, like, fifty songs in this list. What are you, a walking cliché?”

Tommy shoved him. “Haters gonna hate, Bran. Besides: you ain't lived 'til you've seen Daniel Copley do 'I Will Survive.'”

Bran burst out laughing. “You're shitting me.”

“I'm really, really not.”

He went back to his browsing. “You don't have any rap.”

“I for sure don't. Besides: I get enough of it in the locker room.”

“Me too. Hey: who's Max Steiner?”

“Movie composer. Hollywood Golden Age. _Gone With the Wind_ is maybe his most famous score, but he did _King Kong_ and _Casablanca_ too.” Not to mention _Dark Victory_. And _Now Voyager_ —another movie that never failed to make Tommy cry.

“Huh. You've got a lot of stuff from that period. Billie Holiday. Ella Fitzgerald. Judy Garland, of course, of course.” He snickered as Tommy shoved him again.

When he'd finished, he handed back the player, picked up his cup and eyed Tommy over the rim while he drank.

“What? Thinking of more chirps?”

“Nah.” He took another swallow. “I was just thinking: it's an interesting collection. At first, I was kind of surprised by how . . . uh, varied it was. Kind of unexpected. But then I realized: it fits you. 'Cause you're kind of unexpected too.”

Tommy frowned a little. “Yeah? How?”

“I don't mean anything bad, Tommy. It's just that . . . you seem like this real open and, I don't know, forthright person. Is that the word?”

“If 'forthright' means kinda in your face, I guess so.”

They both laughed.

“Anyway: I bet a lot of people who meet you think that the surface is all there is. But it's not: not by a long shot. You're kind of a deep person.” He smiled slightly. “Hidden depths: that's what my nana would say.” He lifted his mug. “And,” he added shrewdly, “I'd also bet that I don't even know the half of it.” Then he smiled again. And it was different this time: wider—and . . . softer, somehow. “Yet.”

And there it was: the perfect opening. Tommy smiled back, gave himself a few seconds to let himself enjoy the little fountain of happiness that was going off in his gut, and then started to open his mouth.

Bran's posture changed a little; the expression on his face changed even more. And then—completely unbidden—a memory sprang into Tommy's mind.

_He'd been—what? Twelve? No, thirteen—and he'd just made a pass that he'd thought would work beautifully—and it hadn't. Far from it, actually: he remembered vividly the feeling of disbelief when things had gone the completely opposite way. And also the feeling of embarrassment when he'd seen his coach's eyes on him._

_He hadn't been completely surprised when he'd been pulled over afterwards and told to head to the office. Where coach cleaned off his blackboard and diagrammed a play._

_“Okay, Standish: talk to me. What happens next? Tell me all the ways you think this could play out.”_

_So Tommy had. And they'd talked about a few of them in detail; Coach had even dug around in his desk and found some different colors of chalk to outline particular moves._

_When they'd done that for a while, Coach studied him._

_“You've got a good eye, Standish. I think you hit on every possible scenario.”_

_Tommy had flushed a little: Coach didn't hand out praise like candy. He muttered, “Thanks, Coach. But . . . it didn't exactly do me much good out there, did it?”_

_“No, it didn't. You want to know why?”_

_Tommy nodded._

_“It's 'cause you picked the riskiest move.” He erased a section of the board and scrawled a quick sketch. “For that pass to work at all, your line mates would've had to move in just the right ways. Done exactly what you wanted.” He added a few arrows. “And what you wanted wasn't exactly the most likely. You cut off a lot of other possibilities. See?”_

_Tommy studied the board—and nodded; he_ could _see it now._

_“I'm not sayin' that kind of maneuver would never work: there's a good chance it could. Sometimes. But not this time. Not in this game.” He tossed the chalk down, brushed his hands off—and then put one of them on Tommy's shoulder. “See, Tommy: there are some risks you take at the end of a game. At the end of a season. When things are windin' down and the odds are against you and you want a better outcome. Then you take risks. But not when you have time. Not at the beginnin' of a game, or a season. Sometimes . . . sometimes you just have to let things play out. Let things develop. 'Cause sometimes, even the best play will end up turnin' to crap.” He chuckled. “My wife, she calls it 'the law of unintended consequences.' So think about it, okay?”_

_“I will, Coach.”_

_“Good. You've got potential, Tommy.” He gestured towards the board. “And a good mind. But sometimes, watchin' you on the ice, I see you thinkin' too much. There's a time for thought, and a time for instinct—and training. Think about that too.”_

_Tommy promised he would—and he had._

He thought about it now—for a split second—and went with his instincts. And changed what he'd been going to say.

“'Yet?' I like the sound of that.” He smiled at Bran again. And then asked what he wanted to do that morning. And didn't fail to note the tiny flicker of relief on Bran's face—and the relaxation of his spine—at the change of subject. He gave an inward nod—and thanked his instincts. It clearly wasn't the right time to talk about reality. Or about the future.

Reality was . . . what it was. And it could fucking bite his freckled ass.

And yet. . . . And yet. . . .

That “Yet.”

Tommy took Bran's “Yet”—and the way it had made him feel—and tucked it away inside of him, to be taken out—and relived—later. Because that word—and the smile that had accompanied it—were pretty strong evidence that it also wasn't the time to abandon his fantasies. Yet.

It was, after all, the beginning. Or _a_ beginning, anyway. There was time to let things play out.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

After checking to make sure he had his keys, Tommy held the door for Bran.

“You sure about this?” he asked one more time.

“Tommy. It's not a problem.”

“Yeah, but I can do this tomorrow. We don't have to waste our time going shopping.”

Bran rolled his eyes.

“As much as I like to pretend, I'm not actually Superman. We've had more sex in the last—Christ, it's not even a day!—than I've had since June; I need to recharge. So, we can go shopping; it's not a big deal. Besides,” he grinned, “you said you'd cook tonight. I want to see these mad skills you've been bragging about all summer.”

“Well, okay.” Tommy started the car. “But don't get your hopes up too far. I ain't that good a cook. Better than I was, for sure.”

“You enjoy it?”

“I guess.” Tommy shrugged. “It's kind of relaxing. I never done much of it before. I mean, I wasn't home all that much. But last year . . . well, you can't eat take out all the time, you know?”

“Couldn't prove it by me,” Bran said, a little sheepishly.

Tommy had to laugh. “And, you know, living with Sid . . . he's got, like, four things he makes. I swear, he's got a mental list or something. Or a schedule, maybe. It was kinda self-defense—you know, learning to make something else.” He looked over and grinned. “When Andrew was staying here at the end of the season? I ain't never eaten so good.”

“I hear you,” Bran nodded. “He cooked a few meals at Tazer's. After the first time? I swear to God, there were fights in the room about who got an invite. And Andrew's all, 'I'm not that good a cook.'” He snorted. “Maybe yes, maybe no. But my nana always says that the hardest thing to cook right is simple food. And that Andrew can do. Plus, he always made enough.”

“For sure. On a regular day, he'd eat, like, a normal amount, while me and Sid went to town. But after he'd performed? Let's just say that leftovers is not a thing that happened those nights.”

Bran was silent for a minute, thinking that over. “Huh. I guess I never really thought . . . I mean, it's not like playing, obviously, but . . . yeah, it must be real draining. To do what he does. He looks like he's in great shape.”

“He is.” Tommy laughed a little. “The first time Sid brought him to skate after practice? I think every guy there checked him out when we was changing.” He laughed again. “And some of 'em didn't even try to hide what they was doing.”

“Those would be the straight guys, right?” Bran's voice was practically a dictionary definition of 'ironic.'

“Well, Sid and me was there, but otherwise. . . .” Tommy let his voice trail off, since he wasn't about to start yakking about Nealer.

After a few seconds, Bran said, “So tell me something, Tommy: given the chance, would you do Andrew?”

Tommy was generally a fan of the truth.

“Nope,” he lied cheerfully. “Would you?”

Bran actually gave it some thought. “I dunno. Uh, maybe?” Tommy glanced over; his eyes were staring into space. “I mean . . . you know, the story I told you last night?”

Tommy nodded.

“I can, like, see myself . . . wanting to take orders from him.” He looked down for a second, and then flicked his eyes to the left; one quick connect and then he looked away. “I mean: that fucking voice of his?” If Tommy wasn't mistaken, he actually shivered a little. “But . . . I don't know about sex.”

That was . . . kind of weird. He slowed down to make a turn. And then decided to have a little fun.

“You know what I think would be a real good time for you?” he said, trying to keep his voice serious.

“What?”

“If Andrew, like, made you do him while he was singing. Maybe you could even be tied up. And he'd tell you not to make a single noise while you blew him. He'd make you swallow his whole cock, then, and you'd be lying there, and you'd, like, only be able to think about two things: his dick and his voice. And they'd both be filling you. But in different ways.”

Bran's jaw had dropped slightly, and his eyes looked a little glazed. And his jeans looked a little fuller than they had.

“Jesus fuck,” Bran said hoarsely. “How long have you been thinking about that?”

“Less than a minute,” Tommy told him. Honestly.

Shaking his head, Bran muttered, “Now, why did I think it was a good idea not to bring up phone sex during the summer?”

Tommy had to laugh.

**********

They were waiting to take the left into the parking lot when Tommy's phone buzzed. Then it buzzed again. And again.

“What the. . . ?”

By the time he'd parked, the buzzing was almost constant.

“That can't be good,” Bran commented.

However illogical it was, Tommy's mind was filled with thoughts of being traded . . . or, maybe even worse, being sent down to the A again. “That wouldn't happen before training camp,” he reassured himself as he yanked out his phone.

His messaging icon was practically vibrating from recording hits. “I ain't never gotten this many texts at once before.” All of his brothers. And his mom. If it was something bad, wouldn't they have called?

Matty's text was on top: 

> _LOLOLOLOLOLOL!!!!!!_

Okay, he could probably relax. You too, he told his clenching stomach. But before he could decide what to open next, a text came in from Daniel. 

> _Wonderful picture! More paternal than regal, I'd say!_

“Huh?” he said intelligently.

“What?”

Bran leaned over as Tommy moved his phone.

“Something you've been meaning to tell me, Tommy?”

“Don't be an asshole,” Tommy muttered. “I got no fucking clue . . . oh, fuck.” His stomach tensed a little again. “Don't tell me. . . .”

“What?”

Tommy scrolled up, and yes: Geoff had sent a text. And Geoff always included. . . .

He tapped on the link. And . . .

“Oh, fuck me sideways!” he spluttered, caught somewhere between amused and appalled.

“Tommy, what the hell is it? You're starting to freak me out.”

Tommy took a deep breath. And then another. He had no idea why he was even remotely upset; this wasn't anything bad. Not really.

“Looks like Jenna—or her husband, maybe—tweeted that picture of me and Lauren. From the airport yesterday? And I was tagged on it.”

“Uh huh. And why is that a problem?”

“The picture ain't the problem. It's the fucking caption.”

Bran leaned closer. And then started to laugh. At first it seemed like he was trying to restrain himself, but it was a lost cause—although he did manage to gasp out, “Let me guess: everybody wants to know which one of you is the hockey princess?” before he totally lost it.

Tommy couldn't help but laugh a little himself, but when Bran showed no sign of calming down, he ignored him as best as he could, and he tried to make sense of things.

“How the fuck could it spread so fast?” he mumbled wonderingly; “I don't hardly ever use Twitter. I got, like, almost no followers.” He figured it out pretty quickly: every single fucking member of the Pens on Twitter had retweeted it. Which meant it went through the whole fucking NHL in record time. And since it was still the offseason, and there wasn't anything else to talk about. . . .

He slumped in his seat as he abandoned Twitter and went back to the texts from his family; the one from his mother just said, “you always did like crowns.”

He practically punched the reply button. 

> _I was 4!!!_

Bran, who was almost in his lap reading along, began laughing even harder.

“Guess you really were just born that way,” he gasped out.

Tommy shoved him. And then—at last—his own sense of humor finally won out.

“Just so you know: it wasn't a crown back then.”

“No?”

“No. It was a tiara.”

Bran dissolved again, and Tommy laughed with him. He took another look at the picture: Lauren looked real cute. And there were a lot worse things that could happen, he reminded himself. Like. . . .

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“There's no fucking way I'm escaping doing more media. The Pens' PR people will suck this dry.” He went back to Twitter . . . and sure enough: the Pens were already on it.

Snorting, Bran nodded. “Definitely.” Then he put his hand on Tommy's thigh. “But at least I get to suck you dry first.”

**********

When things had finally calmed down—Brad had had to drive them back from the store while he was on the phone with Jen from PR; she told him what to say in his own tweet, and it looked like all he was going to have to do besides that was invite Lauren and her parents to a practice and have some pictures taken (the fact that Standish jerseys were actually a thing still blew his fucking mind)—Tommy practically staggered into the media room and collapsed.

“Never in my whole fucking life have I wanted to start drinking in the morning,” he complained.

Bran snorted as he plopped down next to him, essentially manhandling Tommy into a position that was both comfortable and comforting (not that Tommy was likely to admit the second thing).

“In case you don't know this already: it could've been a lot worse.”

“I guess. At least none of the, like, _hundreds_ of chirps I've already gotten from everybody and his fucking brother in the NHL have been too bad. Nothing I can't handle, anyway.”

“Wait 'til the season starts,” Bran warned him; “I bet you'll be 'Princess Tommy' for a while yet. Welcome back to the fucking show.” Then his mouth quirked. “At least your little friend's mom isn't a hockey fan; I don't want to think about what this would have been like if I'd been tagged too.”

Tommy slowly swiveled his head.

“Huh?”

“You gotta know things would've . . . uh, escalated, if it was the two of us. Like that shit about you and Sid—you know, what you was talking about yesterday. I mean, given what most guys are like?”

“Two guys from different teams can't be friends?”

“Of course they can! I'm not saying that. But . . . you know, with the crown added in?” He made a gesture.

Tommy supposed he had a point. He wanted to say something—what, he didn't know—but Bran's face changed and his eyes got . . . more intense.

“And speaking of your crown. . . .” He slid off the couch and knelt in front of Tommy. “How about you tell me what your majesty wants me to do.”

O-kay. “You can start by polishing my scepter.”

They exchanged a glance—and then both lost it.

“Christ, that was cheesy,” Tommy admitted.

“It really, really was. How about we just do it?”

“Works for me.”

“Me too.”

**********

And it really, really did.

**********

They cooked on the grill for supper, and since they'd gotten a late start—naps were a lot more fun with two people in Tommy's bed—it was getting dark by the time they finished eating. Bran had gotten a little quieter as they sat around the table picking at the leftovers (not that there were many), and Tommy had noticed a kind of pinched look on his face once or twice; he also hadn't done more than make a token objection when Tommy told him to go relax on the couch while he finished cleaning up, which probably meant something was bothering him.

“You sure you don't need help?”

“Go.” Tommy waved him away.

To be honest, Tommy welcomed the time alone. Which was a little ironic, since Bran was leaving the next morning. But he needed to regroup, since he was definitely feeling . . . something. He tried to pin it down, and one of the words from his “Word a Day” app (thank you, Sid, for getting me hooked) floated into his mind.

Elegiac.

Tommy had no idea how it was pronounced, but he remembered what it meant. And he thought that now he knew how it felt.

On impulse, he pulled out his phone and texted Andy. 

> _all good things got to end, right?_

There was no reply—even by the time he'd finished in the kitchen. Tommy suppressed a frustrated sigh, and consciously trying to lighten his mood, walked down the hall to the media room. Where he found Bran staring into space—his player lying unattended next to him, which was a real surprise; the pinched look seemed to have morphed into a scowl. Still, his face cleared when Tommy walked in, which was something.

“All set in there?”

“Yeah. You want something?”

Tiling his head, Bran considered. “Maybe another beer. But I'll get it.”

“Nah; I'm already up.”

Tommy handed one of the bottles over, sat down, and when Bran held his up, clinked the longnecks together.

“Everything okay?”

“I guess.” Bran scooted over and drew Tommy closer; Tommy let himself enjoy the contact.

“This has been real nice, Tommy.”

“For sure. Thanks for suggesting it.”

“Yeah? Well, thanks for being such a good host.”

It wasn't all that hard for Tommy to resist rolling his eyes. “You're welcome.”

After a couple of minutes of (really awkward) silence, Bran sighed. He shifted a bit, so they could look at each other more easily; raising his bottle to his mouth, his eyes not leaving Tommy's face, he said conversationally, “You know, upstairs, when I woke up—again,” he grinned a little and Tommy did too, “almost the first thought in my head was that we should've met up sooner. And all during dinner, I kept thinking: two days?” He shook his head. “Not enough.”

Tommy nodded his head in agreement. And managed to keep his mouth shut. He was guessing that they were about to have a “talk”; now that it was here, he had no fucking clue why he'd ever wanted it to happen.

Bran opened his mouth. Closed it again. Took another draught of his beer. And then said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

He fiddled with his bottle, tracing the rim with his forefinger. “Tell me something, Tommy. What do you want?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You're gonna need to be more specific here, Bran. I want a lot of things.”

A flash of a grin. “A Cup win?”

“That'd be right at the top, yeah.”

“'Course it would. But I meant . . . here.” And he waved his hand between them. “What do you want from me?”

Tommy got angry so fast, his head spun. “Excuse me? Did you actually mean that the way it came out?” Only the fact that Bran looked totally at sea kept him from saying more: but it took real effort.

After opening and closing his mouth a couple of times, Bran said, “I'm guessing I didn't.”

Some of his anger bled away, but certainly not all of it. “Do you really not know what that question sounded like? 'What do I _want_ from you?'” He waited. Then he said it again, with different emphasis. “'What do _I_ want from _you?'”_ Another pause. “Do you get it, Bran? Do you?”

Finally, _finally_ , understanding crossed his face. “Aw, Tommy . . . I totally didn't mean it that way. Seriously, man: you have to believe me.”

“I do,” Tommy said, after taking a deep breath. Or two. “So tell me what you _did_ mean.”

“Uh, okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But first: I swear, Tommy, I didn't mean to make you sound like you were some, uh, unreasonable ball-busting chick or something.”

Tommy snorted. “Gee, thanks.” Ball-busting chick? Seriously? He really wished he could see what his mother would do if she heard that comment; Bran might never recover. “Anyway: talk to me.”

“I will. Christ, I'm fucking this up!” He jerked his bottle up and drank half of what was left.

“Bran. Relax. I ain't judging you.” He smirked. “Too much, anyway.” That got him a rueful half-grin in return, but Bran's expression eased.

“I guess I deserved that. Anyway. I'm not telling you anything you don't know, but pretty soon, we'll both be at training camp—different training camps—getting ready for the season.”

“True.”

“So.” A lengthy pause. Then he—visibly—bit the bullet; Tommy braced himself. “Is there any way you'd . . . want to keep in touch during the season?”

Tommy blinked. He'd imagined this conversation maybe a hundred (okay, five hundred) times. But he'd never imagined he'd hear something like that. Well: he _had_ imagined it. Briefly. But he'd made himself stop.

Bran's pinched look was coming back. “I take it that's a no.”

“What? No, it ain't a no!” Tommy shook his head to clear it. “Sorry. I was just . . . surprised. That's all.”

“Yeah? Is that good or bad?”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “It's good, moron.” And it really, really was. “If you want the truth, Bran, I was really hoping we would.”

“Yeah?” Oh, that smile—almost bashful; Tommy wanted to take a picture. Before he started sucking his face off.

Then Brad's expression changed. It wasn't . . . bad, exactly; Tommy didn't really know how to describe it. He opened his mouth—and then, after shaking his head, closed it again without saying anything.

“What?”

“Nothing; it was stupid.”

“I kinda doubt that. What?”

“Well . . . you do know that it won't be like this summer, right?”

Tommy started to ask himself if Bran could really be that clueless—and then stopped wasting his own time. “Okay, maybe that _was_ stupid. Of course I know that. Three letters: N. H. L.”

Bran sat back, relieved. Tommy considered . . . and then decided he had nothing to lose.

“You said 'keep in touch.' You feel like telling me what you had in mind?”

He really wasn't prepared for Bran to start blushing. Tommy started laughing.

“Oh, I take it back; I don't care if you want to or not—you _have_ to tell me!”

Even as he whapped Tommy on the back of his head, Bran started laughing too.

“Honest, I didn't have anything in mind. It's not like I thought this through.”

“Yeah? Just an impulse move?”

Brad nodded—and then leaned forward a little.

“Look, Tommy. I don't wanna make a big deal out of this. But yeah—it was kind of on impulse. It's just . . . well. It's not like we'll see each other hardly at all. And it's also not like we'll have much free time. But . . . I like you, guy. I like talking with you. Obviously, I like the sex stuff too—a lot—but I guess I just . . . aw, fuck: before you came in, I was sitting here thinking that I'd miss you.”

His face was practically scarlet; Tommy was . . . charmed. And he found himself unable to resist.

“Brandon Saad: are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

The look of horror on Bran's face was so . . . acute . . . that Tommy almost fell off the couch.

“I got some advice for you, Bran,” he said once he'd wound down; “there's no need for you to give me your sweater; I've got enough of my own. And if you have any intention of giving me one of your rings? Thanks, but I think I'd rather work on getting one of my own.”

“You're hilarious,” Bran said, trying for sour—and failing completely.

“Don't front; I'm awesome.” Then he reached over and gave Bran's hand a squeeze. “I'm sorry for teasing you.”

Bran kept Tommy's hand from retreating for a second or two. “Don't sweat it, Tommy.”

“Okay, I won't.” A pause—and this one wasn't awkward. “You want another beer?”

“Yeah, why not. But I'll get it; I gotta go anyway. You want to watch a movie?”

“Sure. What?”

“You pick.” Bran stood up and snagged the empties. “Maybe a comedy, yeah?”

“Classic or recent?”

“How about . . . maybe one of those . . . what did you call 'em, screwball comedies? I really liked the one with the leopard.”

Tommy was already reaching for the remote. “Let me see what Netflix has on tap.”

The minute Bran left the room, though, Tommy dropped his head and took a couple of deep breaths. He had no idea where his reaction had come from; it had just felt . . . right. Instinct, maybe, he thought. And even though he'd felt like he was skating blindfolded, it seemed like he'd done the right thing.

“We'll just have to wait and see,” he told himself. “You got time, remember?”

**********

The next morning, Bran glanced at his watch—again—and groaned. “Okay: I can't put it off any more. I gotta go; I promised my parents I'd spend the rest of the day with them.”

“You got all your stuff?”

Bran patted his pockets. “I guess.”

Tommy stood up—and was pulled into a tight hug.

“I'm gonna miss you, guy.”

Squeezing a little harder, Tommy said, “Me too. This whole 'up close and personal' thing has been great.”

“I know. But . . . we'll be in touch. Right?”

“For sure. You remember the rules?”

“No more than three versions of any aria at one time,” Bran said ruefully.

“And?”

“I will never ask you to listen to anything that lasts more than three hours.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Grinning, Tommy leaned in for another kiss. “And now . . . maybe we can mix in some phone sex.”

Bran laughed. “I really like the way you think.”

“Well, good. By the way: before you got up this morning, I put something on your player.”

“Yeah? What?”

“It's a surprise,” Tommy told him. “Now, here's your orders.” He _really_ enjoyed Bran's reaction—as well as the fact that he didn't try to hide it. “Don't try to find out what it is it until you're on the plane tomorrow. And then listen to it as soon as you're airborne. You good with that?”

“I am.” He waggled his eyebrows like a complete dork. “Or will be, I guess.” One last clinch, and then they walked out to Bran's car.

Tommy stood in the driveway until the tail lights were out of sight. Then, not knowing if he wanted to sigh or shrug, he walked back into the house to start cleaning. After he called Andy.

**********

The next day, just as he was getting ready to go pick Sid up, his phone buzzed. 

> _For fucks sake you put judy garland on my player!!!_

Tommy could almost _hear_ the outrage. 

> _Remember ur orders._

After about a minute, he got a reply. 

> _jfc... ok_

Still laughing when he got to his car, Tommy smiled the entire way to the airport.  He had no idea what was going to happen; he just hoped it was fun.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I finally got this to a point where I didn't despise every single word, so I thought I'd better post it before I changed my mind!
> 
> Happy New Year!

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This was an experience. If I had known, way, way back when I was writing And For the Record, that I would end up writing three missing scenes based upon a very minor subplot (I think it takes up fewer than 500 words total), I would have been _much_ more careful in choosing the details I included in those words! Unlike the two earlier parts of this series, this fic was _very_ hard to write, because I felt constrained by the way Tommy described his "working on getting a boyfriend" efforts to Sid. Were it not for those few sentences, I would have written this fic _very_ differently. (In all honesty: I _did_ write this fic differently: several times, in fact. Just yesterday, I ripped out over 2000 words--including one of the best lines I have ever written for Tommy--because including them would have cast Tommy and Brandon's relationship in a very discontinuous way. Sigh.)  
>   
>  I will be even more honest: I have mixed feelings about posting this. On the one hand, I think it stands on its own (I certainly hope it does, anyway!). On the other: I could have written _so_ much more. But I decided to go ahead and post it as is, because I really want to finish editing the sequel to AFTR (which, God willing and my sanity lasting, I will do in the next two weeks), and my obsessing over this fic has been preventing me. So: I hope you all enjoyed the ending of Tommy's "summer with a thousand Julys" (another line from "You Go to My Head," and if you are a Tommy fan and you don't know that song, please look it up, because I imagine he listened to it about a gazillion times between Vegas and Pittsburgh). And given my reservations about this fic, I would especially appreciate hearing what you liked about it (or what you didn't). I could always add a chapter, I suppose . . . later.  
>   
>  Thanks so much to all of you for reading!


End file.
